


the line's open (call anytime)

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: 5 Things, Angst and Fluff, F/M, Feelings, One More, They're cute, and then, they facetime a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22902787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: or: 5 times Brad and Claire talked on Facetime, and then 1 time they didn't
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 30
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as always, this is 100% fiction.

_one_

The Saffitz kitchen is a pleasant, chaotic mess of family and food and chatter that grows louder with every glass of wine, and the turkey’s got another hour. Claire honestly didn’t know she had this many cousins.

Maybe it’s time for a break.

Claire takes a deep breath and tiptoes up the stairs, sneaking into her old bedroom, and sinks onto the bed. The house in Cape Cod is lovely, but it wasn’t meant for this many people. She just needs a few minutes.

Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out to find a new text from Brad: no words, just six turkey emojis.

Yes, that’s exactly what she’d expect from Brad Leone.

She texts him back. _Happy Thanksgiving!_

He responds with two more turkey emojis and a little brown blob that she thinks is probably a potato emoji. Again, this is par for the course in the world of Brad.

She yawns, looking out the window and wondering if she can steal enough time for a short nap before dinner, when her phone buzzes with an incoming Facetime call.

That’s not what she was expecting, but she answers anyway as Brad’s face appears onscreen. “Hi.”

“ _Hey!”_ His phone dips, and she can hear voices in the background. “ _My niece wanted to know who I was talking to.”_

Sure enough, a tiny little face peeks into the screen curiously. She can’t be much more than four or five. She stares at Claire for a long moment, then looks up at Brad. “ _Who’s that?”_

“ _That’s my friend Claire._ ” Brad points into the screen. “ _Can you say hi?”_

The little girl looks back at the screen. “ _Hi.”_

“Hi.” Claire waves. The little girl has those same bright blue eyes, messy, curly dark blonde hair, and the most _adorable_ little dimples. “What’s your name?”

“ _Robin_.”

“Nice to meet you, Robin.”

Robin beams a little shyly, and her eyes flicker between Claire and Brad before she leans in to whisper something into his ear.

Brad looks sheepish for a long moment, but hugs the girl, nodding. “ _Yeah, she is pretty, isn’t she?”_

Claire flushes hotly, but Robin just rests her little chin on her uncle’s shoulder, looking at Claire with that curious gaze, then looking back at Brad. “ _Uncle Brad, is she your girlfriend?”_

“ _Girlfriend? Oh, no, no no, kiddo.”_ Brad’s voice sounds faintly strangled, and even through the phone screen, Claire can see how red his ears are. “ _Claire’s just my friend. Good friend.”_

Robin wrinkles her little nose. _“Are you sure?”_

Brad steals a look at Claire, and she bites her lip. “ _Pretty sure.”_

Claire decides to help him out. “He’s right, Robin. But we’re very good friends.”

The little girl seems satisfied with that answer. “ _Okay.”_

She squirms out of Brad’s arms and scampers off, curls flying, and Brad lets out a short laugh, scrubbing one hand over his face. “ _Whew. Sorry about that_.”

“No, don’t be.” Claire smiles wistfully. “She’s adorable.”

“ _She sure is.”_ Brad’s got that soft look on his face, warm and affectionate, and something turns over in her chest, something that makes her heart skip a few beats. “ _Little monster.”_

Silence settles over them for a long, peaceful moment, and Claire feels the sudden inexplicable urge to hug him. Just settle beside him, curl up, and relax into the strong, dependable warmth of him.

It’s a revelation she’s not ready for, and she takes a sharp breath. “I – I should probably get back downstairs.”

“ _Sure, sure. I gotta go help wrangle the little monster._ ” Brad shakes his head. “ _For such a little thing, she’s exhausting, you know?”_

“Go ahead, _Uncle Brad_. You’re got work to do,” she tells him, grinning. “I’ll see you next week.”

“ _Happy Thanksgiving, Claire.”_

She ends the call and sets her phone down on the bedspread beside her, taking a deep breath, biting her lip.

( _Uncle Brad._ )

* * *

_two_

Brad’s been gone for a few days, and Claire’s at home in grungy clothes, scrubbing her shower walls, when he calls her.

She wipes a strand of hair back, smiling even before his face appears on the phone screen. “Hey, Brad.”

“ _Pura vida, Claire!”_ As usual, his voice crackles the phone’s speakers. Modern iPhone audio technology has yet to catch up to Brad Leone levels.

“How’s Costa Rica?”

“ _Fuckin’ awesome! I met like ten parrots on Friday. It’s sunny and like 80 degrees every day. It’s great.”_

“I’m jealous.” Spring in New York is currently in the grey, misty, rainy phase. Every day, she wakes up and just wants to curl up on the couch and watch Disney movies. “Send it up here.”

He laughs. “ _Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll get right on that. But hey, look, Claire, I found a new friend!”_

He tilts the phone, and Claire squints as she sees a tiny little monkey perched on a tree branch near his head, chittering at him excitedly.

“ _I call him Pedro_. _Looks kinda like you, don’t he?”_

Sure enough, the monkey is black, with fringes of white fur down its back.

“I – guess?” The monkey’s cute, she has to admit.

“ _Bet I could bring him back home_. _Whaddaya think, Pedro? Wanna go meet Claire?_ ”

He’s joking. She’s like ninety percent sure. Well, maybe eighty-five. “No, Brad.”

“ _But can’t I_ –”

“ _No_ , you can’t put the monkey in your backpack.”

“ _Aww, come on, Claire! He’d totally fit!”_

“Brad, when you get arrested at Customs for trying to smuggle an animal, I’m not bailing you out. Just so you know.”

“ _You’re no fun, you know that? No fun. Zero._ ”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Claire settles back against the wall. “You’re running around stealing monkeys, I’m cleaning my bathroom.”

“ _Really? That fuckin’ sucks. Come here instead.”_

Claire sighs, looking down at her spray cleaner bottle and sponge. The whole bathroom smells of sickly, fake lemon scent. “I wish.”

“ _Well, hey, good for you, being productive. I’ll tell Pedro you’re workin’ hard.”_

“Thanks.” She can’t bring herself to grudge it. At least one of them should get to enjoy sunshine, somewhere in the world. “Have fun, okay?”

“ _See you soon!”_

* * *

He texts her the next day: a photo of his backpack and duffel sitting on the hotel bed, packed and ready to go, with the message _you SURE you don’t want me to bring Pedro home, he’d totally love it_.

Claire sighs and sends a reply.

_Better not. I hear there’s no garlic in prison._

* * *

When she walks into the kitchen the next week, Brad’s big and loud and grinning. His skin is tan, and it makes his eyes look even bluer, and she could swear the heat and light of the jungle is clinging to him, even in the concrete-and-steel coldness of the city.

He gives her a little carved wooden monkey figure, which she sets on the edge of her cutting board for the day as she pulls out butter for her next batch of pie crusts.

Between Pedrito, and Brad hovering cheerfully at the edge of her station, she’s perfectly happy for the company.

* * *

_three_

The chilly, rainy evening is just starting to grow dim, but Claire’s kitchen is warm and bright as she stands at the counter, frowning at the bowl in front of her.

After a moment’s reflection, Claire wipes her hands on her apron, reaching for her phone and opening Facetime.

Brad picks up almost immediately, and she lets out a relieved breath. “Brad! Oh, thank God. I need your help.”

“ _Whatcha doin’ there? You need something destroyed?”_

She chuckles. “No, no. I’m making your mustard, and I had a question.”

“ _Oh, hey, look at that! Little Miss Harvard, takin’ lessons from_ me. _Big fuckin’ day.”_

She rolls her eyes. “Brad –”

“ _Better grab a notebook, Claire. Maybe a pen. Calculator. Like a fuckin’ abacus or some shit._ ”

“Oh my God, Brad, I will hang up right _now_ –”

He laughs, loud and booming. _“All right, all right. Whatcha need?”_

“I don’t have any verjus. What’s the best substitute?”

“ _Can’t run to the store?”_

She looks out the window. “It’s raining. And it’s cold and I don’t feel like going outside.” And she’s not wearing a bra, which is her litmus test for ‘today is over, I’m done.’

“ _Oh, fuckin’ A._ ” He shakes his head. “ _So much for devotion to the craft, Saffitz.”_

“Braaaaaaaad.” She knows she’s whining. She can’t help it. “Why do I even bother calling you?”

“ _Cuz I’m a fuckin’ expert, Claire._ ” He taps his forehead. “ _Got a great noodle here.”_

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“ _That’s why you love me!”_ He pauses for a second. “ _So you’re swapping somethin’ for the verjus?_ ” She nods. “ _No big. Just do a little splashy-splash of white wine, and a little sugar and spritz a little lemon juice in there. You got wine, right?”_

“I always have wine.” What does he think she is, some kind of cavewoman? “Anything specific?”

“ _Whatcha got?”_

“Hang on.”

After a quick search, Claire comes back to the kitchen and sets out three bottles. Brad leans into the screen, squinting to read the labels. “ _I mean, honestly, any of those’d be fine. Got good options there.”_

“Great!”

Claire scans the three bottles, picks one, and turns to set the other two aside, and Brad laughs. “ _Oh, hey! Little Pedro!”_

She turns around to see what he’s looking at, and sure enough, it’s Pedrito, the little wooden monkey, perched on a shelf. “ Oh, yeah. Yeah, I thought that was a good place for him.”

“ _Makin’ me feel all warm and fuzzy, Claire.”_ His voice is teasing, but she can’t help thinking there’s something else on his face. Something – careful? _“Got a little part of me there in your kitchen with ya.”_

“Yeah, well.” She can feel herself blushing as she brushes a strand of hair back from her face. “He’s a lot quieter than you.”

“ _Not half as handy, though. He ain’t ever destroyed kitchen equipment for ya, has he?”_

“That’s true. He hasn’t.”

“ _Well, good. Hate to think I’m getting replaced.”_

“Oh, don’t worry, Brad.” Claire smiles fondly. “You’re one-of-a-kind.”

* * *

_four_

Brad’s somewhere in the middle of Saskatchewan.

Well, he’s on a train. And the train’s in Saskatchewan.

Hunzi has wandered off to the dining car for a snack, leaving Brad alone in their compartment on the almost-completely-empty train. He can’t complain, though. He’s got a nice view of long, sweeping fields in the distance out the window. They should be in Saskatoon in a hour or two.

His phone buzzes; it’s Chris. _There are gnats around the fermentation station again._

Brad chuckles. _its all just part of nature. Claire complaining about it again??_

Chris’s response is quick. _She’s out sick today._

Brad frowns at his phone. Claire gets sick too often. And it’s not like she gets the sniffles and runs home to nap all day, either. She gets _really_ sick too often. He’s seen how tired she gets, how worn out, and he can’t help thinking she’s wearing herself too thin.

Brad Leone doesn’t like worrying. But he’s worried.

* * *

He’s not sure it’s a good idea, but that’s never stopped Brad Leone before, has it?

So he calls her on Facetime, waiting patiently as the dialing town sounds, and finally the call connects.

Her face appears on his screen, and sure enough, she looks miserable. She’s pale, wrapped up in an oversized sweatshirt that makes her look even tinier. She blinks at him confusedly as she puts on her glasses. “ _Brad?”_ Her voice is raspy and weak.

“Heya, Claire.” He sets his iPad up on the table in front of him, leaning on his elbows. “Heard you weren’t feelin’ so hot.”

She groans, and even through the speakers, it’s the same endearing noise he hears from her station when there’s sugar work going badly. _“I’m never getting off this couch. Ever.”_

“Aww, Claire.” Canada’s great, but right now Brad wishes he wasn’t here, because he needs her to be _okay_ and she’s sick and miserable and why isn’t there anyone taking care of her? “You got a fever?”

“ _I feel like a furnace_ ,” she confesses.

“You drinkin’ your water, Claire? Gotta stay hydrated, y’know. Ain’t that what they say? ‘Feed a cold, drink a fever?’”

She quirks an eyebrow at him, amused even in her current misery. “ _I don’t think that’s what it is.”_

“Still. Water’s important, Claire. And garlic. You been eating your garlic?”

“ _Brad –”_

“Claire! Do you _wanna_ be sick forever?”

“ _Braaaaaaad_ ,” she whines in that soft, pitiful voice she only ever saves for him, and maybe he shouldn’t find it as cute as he does but fuck if it doesn’t make him smile, every time he hears it. “ _Did you call me just to yell at me?”_

Oh, great. Now he feels guilty. “Nah, I’m just worried about you, okay? You work too hard. Gonna fall apart one of these days if you’re not careful.”

Her expression softens into something like a smile, something gentle and fond that makes his chest ache. “ _Work is so much better when you’re there._ ”

Well, if _that_ doesn’t make his heart grow three fuckin’ sizes –

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he assures her, “and you gotta get healthy, like, pronto, ‘kay? I’ll build whatever fuckin’ weird contraption you want.”

She’s still smiling, her eyes blinking slow and heavy, watching him with undisguised warmth. “ _Okay._ ”

His phone buzzes insistently in his pocket, and Brad sighs. “Hang on a sec.” It’s Hunzi, asking if he wants food.

Brad thinks for a second. Yeah, he wants food.

He texts Hunzi back quickly, telling him to just grab whatever looks good and bring some tea if they have any, and sets the phone down. He’s about to say something, ask if Claire’s got food and tea and medicine, but he stops short when he sees her face on the screen.

Her eyes are shut, her face slack.

She’s asleep.

Brad lets out a long breath. At least she looks relaxed now. It seems like she always has shadows under her eyes these days. More than once, he’s found himself watching her from across the kitchen, wondering how much sleep she got the night before, and how much caffeine she’s taking in to balance it out.

Claire’s face is soft in repose, her glasses slipping down her nose a little. Her cheeks are pink – from the fever, he’s sure – and her hair is tumbled over her shoulders, and as much as he’s worried about her health, Brad can’t help but notice just how profoundly adorable she is, nestled there in her blankets.

He could wake her, but she needs the rest. And she looks so tired, so girlish and gentle, and he couldn’t possibly disturb something so beautiful.

So Brad sits quietly – not usually one of his strengths – and just watches her. Counts the long, low breaths, watches the flutter of her eyelashes.

(It’s not weird, he tells himself. It’s not. He’s just worried about a friend.)

He hears a soft noise, and a second later, he sees movement on the screen. Claire’s cat appears in the frame, and Brad huffs. So much for the emotional moments. “Hey, Felix.”

The cat runs off, his tail brushing Claire’s face, and the sudden motion drags her back out of her drowse. She blinks in confusion ( _it’s so fucking cute_ ), then finally seems to remember where she is. “ _Brad? Was I asleep?”_

“Just for like a second.”

“ _Sorry._ ”

“It’s fine, Claire. I’m gonna let you go, okay? But text me later. Gotta make sure you’re not all zonked out on the floor with Felix eating your face or something.”

“ _Ew, Brad!_ ” She laughs, but it quickly morphs into a deep, chest-rattling cough. “ _Ow._ ”

“Get some rest.” He has the strongest urge to add _babe_ to the end of it, and he tells himself he doesn’t know where that’s coming from.

“ _Thanks, Brad._ ”

* * *

Sure enough, he and Hunzi are at a dive bar in Saskatoon that night, drinking beers and watching a shitty local band doing their very best, when his phone buzzes.

Brad taps in his code and opens it to find a photo: soft, sleepy Claire, nestled in her blankets, Felix curled up against her arm. Beneath it, she’s written _See? Not eating my face_.

He grins and types out a response.

_good, i like it the way it is_

* * *

_five_

Pale morning sunrays are just starting to spill across the English Channel. The breezes off the water are chilly but bracing, and Claire wraps her sweater tighter around herself, pulling her knees to her chest.

She opens Facetime and calls Brad before she can talk herself out of it. How far is Anchorage from Sark, anyway? Thousands of miles. How is it she always needs to talk to him when there’s at least one ocean between them?

But despite her lingering worry, Brad picks up almost immediately. It’s quiet around him, so she assumes he’s in a hotel room somewhere.

“ _Claire?”_ He blinks at his phone quizzically, like he’s not sure it’s really her. “ _What the hell time is it where you are?”_

“Um –” she squints at her phone – “it’s almost six.”

“ _In the morning?”_

“Yeah.” She winces. “I’m so sorry if I woke you, I didn’t even think –”

“ _Nah, it’s not even that late, don’t worry about it.”_ Brad wouldn’t tell her if she _had_ woken him up, she knows. But she decides to trust him anyway. She doesn’t have the world map of time zones memorized for quick reference. “ _What’s up?”_

“Look.”

Claire turns the phone, showing him the beach in front of her. The horizon stretches as far as she can see, endless, gently-lapping water, and above it the sun is soft gold, the sky melting from yellow to soft rose to cream under the remaining deep blue above her, wisps of clouds like shadowy breaths against the sunlight.

She hears him whistle. _“Fuckin’_ amazing _, Claire. What a view.”_

“It’s gorgeous.”

“ _Sure is. Wow.”_ Brad clears his throat. “ _Wait – thought you were hangin’ with your friends in Paris._ ”

“I was. But I decided to take a few days for myself. I was reading about this little island, so I thought I’d come see what it’s like.”

“ _Wait, so where are you?”_

“Sark.”

“ _What now?”_

Claire chuckles. Oh, Brad. “Sark. It’s an island in the English Channel. I’m between England and France right now.”

“ _Ah, okay. Hence the water. Gotcha.”_

They both fall silent for a moment, watching the sun slowly warming up the sky, and finally, Brad asks, “ _So what’s wrong?_ ”

“What do you mean?”

“ _You’re not really a morning person, Claire. And not that I don’t appreciate it, but you could’ve just sent a picture of the view. What’s goin’ on?”_

Claire lets out a long breath. “I’ve just been kind of stressed.”

“ _You’re always stressed, Claire. Something else you wanna talk about?”_

For a few seconds, she thinks about deflecting again. He’d let her, she knows. If she makes it clear, he’ll stay outside the boundary she sets, and he’ll just quietly, calmly worry about her.

She smiles mirthlessly. “I don’t know where to start.”

“ _Start anywhere.”_

Might as well be honest, she thinks. Brad always knows when she’s lying.

“I’m just – I’m just so _tired_ ,” she confesses. “It feels like all I do is work and then I go home and I just kind of disappear, and everything – everything now is good, like my job, the book deal, all that is fine, but it’s everything I _don’t_ have that’s missing and I just feel so _lonely_.”

It all comes bubbling up out of her before she can stop it, and by the time she stops, her throat aches, and her eyes are pricking.

(She’s never said it out loud before.)

“ _Turn the camera around, Claire.”_

“What?”

“ _Look at me_.”

She hesitates, wiping away a stray tear that seems to have escaped without her permission, and finally turn her phone back so they’re looking at each other. “Okay.”

(His eyes are criminally blue, she thinks. It’s not fair.)

“ _How long you been feelin’ like this?”_

“I’m not sure.” She shrugs. “It kind of crept up on me.”

He’s not smiling. It looks wrong on him. His brow is furrowed, and even from four thousand miles away, his gaze is so clear and direct that it makes her catch her breath. “ _I didn’t know.”_

“Yeah, well.” She huffs. “There’s never really a way to say it.”

“ _You can tell me anything. Anytime.”_

She makes a face. “Brad –”

“ _I mean it, Claire._ ” His voice is as serious as she’s ever heard it. Most people don’t know Brad Leone like this, when the cameras are off and there’s no audience and his whole presence is focused on one thing. “ _I don’t want you thinking you gotta run off to some fuckin’ island in the middle of nowhere because no one cares.”_

Her eyes well up fresh at that, even as she tightens her jaw. Because even the most breathtaking sunrise doesn’t change the fact that she’s watching it on a rock on a beach somewhere in the middle of the English Channel, and she has to call someone an ocean and a continent away to share it.

“Sometimes it feels like I just – like I melt away outside of work. Like nothing else matters.” In the work-life balance right now, she’s just not sure if there’s anything on the _life_ side.

“ _You think you’re nothin’ but the world’s best pastry chef? Oh, hell no. I mean, you_ are _. But you’re also just about the best person ever. You’re smart and funny and kind, and even if you never cooked another fuckin’ thing in your life, we’d all still care about you. Even Rapo. And he’s an asshole.”_

She smiles at that, watery, but genuine. “How do you always know what to say?”

“ _Just tellin’ the truth.”_ He smiles back, a softer, half-smile, the one he doesn’t use on-camera. “ _You gonna be okay? I dunno, you want me to call someone?”_

Claire shakes her head. “No, no. I’m fine.”

“ _You sure?”_

She takes a shaky breath. “I’m fine, I promise. I just needed to let it out.”

“ _Well, I meant it, Claire. I’m here to listen, no matter what.”_

“I know.” It’s true. Brad’s always there. Always. “Thank you.”

“ _Anytime, Claire. You just call.”_

* * *

When her plane touches down in New York, Claire turns her phone back on to find four text messages: one from Molly, asking if Claire wants to join her and Sohla and Priya for a girls’ night out; one from her mother asking how Paris was; one from Chris, begging her to come back to the kitchen ASAP because no one else appreciates his witty remarks; and one from Brad that just says _welcome home!!_

And she can’t _prove_ that Brad’s responsible for anything except the last one.

But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know.

So she texts him back. _Thanks! See you on Monday?_

His response comes within seconds.

_i’ll bring extra yerba_


	2. Chapter 2

Claire Saffitz does not like being a cliché.

That said, she’s wearing sweats, sitting on the couch with a glass of wine, a sleepy cat, and Netflix, when her phone rings.

She thinks about letting it go to voicemail, but then she sees it’s Brad, and, well. That changes things.

Claire picks up. “Hello?”

“ _You okay?”_

She sighs. “Who told you?”

“ _Carla._ _And Molly. And Andy. And Christina.”_

“Oh, come on –”

“ _Got four fuckin’ texts within like ten minutes, Claire.”_

She tries to be annoyed, but she can’t even find the energy to pretend. Because why wouldn’t everyone tell Brad to call her? She always calls Brad. She calls when she’s making mustard, she calls when she’s lonely on a beach four thousand miles away, she pleads with him to set up the dehydrator, she asks if he can teach her to drive stick shift.

(For a long time now, Claire has very deliberately refused to connect the dots.)

“Fine.” She scrubs one hand over her face, suddenly, pointedly glad this is a voice call and not Facetime. What is her expression even supposed to be right now? “What do you want to talk about?”

“ _When did you guys break up?”_

(Of all the times for Brad Leone to suddenly find the ability to focus.)

“Last night.”

“ _You didn’t say anything.”_

“It’s –”

Claire stops short, because she can’t honestly say _It’s none of your business_. It’s the kind of thing she _would_ normally tell him, because they tell each other everything. He knows her preferred type of rolling pin, she knows his top ten Bruce Springsteen songs, and he knew she was dating someone.

But she spent today working quietly, not telling anyone (until Molly dragged it out of her), and only now is Brad forcing her to examine why.

She tries again. “It’s fine, Brad.”

“ _Oh, sure it is_.”

Claire worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “I really wish you weren’t so observant.”

“ _Face it, Half-Sour. I know you too well.”_

Her heart stumbles in her chest. Because he _does_ know her. Her knows her better than anyone.

(She very carefully ignores the fact that David never made her feel like this.)

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” she says finally.

“ _What am I thinkin’, Claire?”_

She scowls, settling back against the couch cushions. She doesn’t usually struggle for words, but right now, everything is hovering just out of reach, like her feelings are this thin, gossamer web that her hand passes through when she tries to grab it.

“I’m not upset.” He makes a small noise she can’t quite understand. He probably doesn’t believe her. “I mean it! I’m not.”

She’s not upset. She’s not drunk. She hasn’t shed a tear about it, and she isn’t going to.

(“I just don’t think this is working,” David said, his voice, as always, slightly apologetic.)

More than anything, it just felt inevitable.

“ _You need me to kick his ass? I’ll do it, Claire. Just say the word. He ain’t been treating you right –”_

“No, no. Nothing like that. He was perfectly nice.”

(David smiled politely and walked out of her place with his coat and his umbrella and the almond milk he always kept in her fridge in case she forgot to pick some up. But she never forgot.)

“ _So what is it, then?”_

“We’re too alike,” she sighs. “We both got so uptight over stuff, oh my God, Brad, the _stupidest_ little things, and normally I freak out about stuff but _he_ did too, and it’s like one little missed reservation would ruin the entire night. But how could I be mad at him? – because I do it, too. And I just kept thinking, if _he’s_ this unpleasant when he’s stressed, _I_ must be an absolute nightmare.”

“ _Whoa, whoa whoa. Hang on, lady. That’s my friend you’re talkin’ about there.”_

Claire sighs, shaking her head. “He’s perfect for someone. But not me.”

“ _You think so?”_

She nods before she remembers that he can’t see her. “Yeah.”

“ _Sorry to keep buggin’ you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”_

“Of course you did,” she sighs, and there it is, that soft, warm swell of fondness. Because Brad’s _very sensitive_. “I guess – I thought it would hurt more than it does.”

“ _How’s that?_ ”

“My heart’s not broken.” That has to mean something.

“ _Well, that’s good. Right? It’s good?”_

She can see Brad’s face in her mind’s eye, clear as day. He’s probably sitting on his hotel bed – he always complains that hotel chairs are made for people under six feet – and he’ll have taken his cap off, so his hair will be messy. But his face is rapt with attention, she knows, because right now he’s completely and totally focused on her.

“Maybe he wasn’t the one I really wanted.”

The words slip between them like fabric: smooth, rich, heavy, quiet even as it tumbles into a tidy, messy heap. Because it’s too honest. It’s a door cracked open that she usually keeps shut.

And he hears it, of course. “ _What are you saying, Claire?”_

“What do you think I’m saying?”

“ _That ain’t fair. You gonna just throw out something like that and then play dumb? That’s never worked for you.”_

He’s right. Claire sighs, pulls her feet up under herself. “We have to talk about it, Brad. I just – we both know it.”

“ _You really wanna talk about it like this? Over the phone, a million miles away?”_

“You said I could talk to you anytime. About anything.”

It’s a little bit of a cheap shot, but he doesn’t call her on it. ” _Just don’t want you to regret it later, alright? It’s a lot easier to talk over a fuckin’ phone than in person.”_

“Let’s make a deal,” she says, because apparently this is what ‘reckless’ feels like. “We tell the truth. Okay?”

There’s a long silence, and she suddenly feels her stomach drop. “Okay, Brad?”

“ _If that’s what you want,”_ he says finally. “ _Okay. Tell me the truth, Claire.”_

(“You’re very guarded,” David said. “And I am, too. And I think we’re kind of holding each other at arm’s length, and I don’t think it’s healthy.”)

Claire doesn’t usually take risks that don’t involve hard crack sugar and tempered chocolate and an itemized, annotated list of options.

“David was nice. But he’s not what I want.”

“ _What_ do _you want, Claire?”_

“I – ” Why can’t she just say it? Just say the words. Just open her mouth and phonate.

“ _Someone’s gotta say it first, Claire,”_ he points out, his voice low and gentle. “ _And you said this was truth-tellin’ time.”_

She lets out a soft grumble. “You have this annoying habit of being right.”

“ _And you’re pretty good at avoiding a question.”_

Claire swears under her breath, and she can hear him chuckle. “Where are you right now?”

“ _Chicago_.”

It hits her, bright and clear – if he were here, if it were just a matter of catching the ferry and a train and walking a few blocks –

“Would you come over?”

There’s a long moment of silence, and when he finally speaks, she can hear the confusion in his voice. “ _Claire?”_

“If you were here. If you were at home, and I asked you to come over.”

( _We agreed to tell the truth, Brad._ )

There’s a pause, and she counts the milliseconds between seconds and doesn’t breathe, and he finally sighs. “ _Yeah. I would.”_

Everything suddenly feels very warm and tight and contained. Claire swallows hard. “Oh.”

He laughs, though it’s a little unsteady. “ _There’s that Harvard vocab.”_

“Sorry,” she apologizes for nothing in particular. But she _did_ just push him into an admission before answering the question herself. It’s not quite using Oreos to make Oreos, but it still feels like cheating.

“ _You said you wanted the truth._ ”

“I know.”

“ _Gonna ask you again, Claire. Just tell me the truth, that’s all. What do you want?”_

Claire takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes so there’s nothing else around her, just darkness and warmth and Brad’s voice.

“I want you.”

There’s a moment where they both just breathe, taking in the fact that whatever this is, this _thing_ that’s been uncurling and blossoming from the soft warm tendrils of affection and humor and soft looks and blushes and every call and text and message that keeps them connected even when they’re thousands of miles apart – it’s real, and they both know it’s worth admitting.

She shifts up on her knees and pulls the curtain aside, looking out into the street, where people are hurrying by, night lights gleaming in the city that never sleeps. Eight and a half million people in this city, and there’s only one she wants to see right now.

“When are you coming back?”

“ _Tomorrow night.”_

“Right.” Claire lets out a shaky breath. “Will you call me? – when you get back?”

“ _Sure I will.”_

* * *

She wakes up with the sun the next morning, feeling brighter and lighter and more rested than she has in months, and finds that despite being in the Central timezone and therefore an hour earlier than her, Brad has already texted.

_morning half sour_

_have a good run_

_see you soon k?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more on the way to wrap it up.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

(He calls her as he’s walking through Newark. It’s noisy, of course, hard to hear everything, but she sounds delighted, and she says _I’ll talk to you in a little bit, okay?_ and as scattered as he feels, waiting for his bus, it’s all good.)

* * *

_(and then one time they talked in person)_

* * *

The sun is sinking on the horizon, shadows growing longer, as Brad turns the corner onto his block, shifting his duffel bag on his shoulder. _Almost home_.

As he gets closer, he can see a figure sitting on his front steps, holding a cardboard box in her lap. A petite, dark-haired figure, huddled up in a jacket against the evening chill. Sparkling dark eyes, a soft smile.

“Hey, you.”

It’s not his smoothest line, but that doesn’t seem to matter, because her whole face lights up. It’s that smile he loves, the one that makes her whole being seem brighter, the one she always seems to save for him.

She clambers to her feet, looking up at him expectantly, box still in hand. Brad’s not exactly sure what the next step is, here. He’s never been in this situation. Never confessed his feelings over the phone to a woman he’s not romantically involved with. Never _had_ feelings like this for a woman he’s never even kissed.

But there’s something about this – something about walking up to his own front door and finding her there waiting for him – that feels so familiar, so warm and domestic and _right_ , that he can’t help smiling back at her.

“You trekked all the way over here?”

She shrugs, her cheeks pink. “I got impatient.”

“Couldn’t wait to see this handsome face, huh?”

Claire shoots him a mock glare, but there’s too much soft fondness in it to be convincing. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Whatcha got there?”

Claire looks down at the box in her hands. “It’s, um, pumpkin pie.”

Wait. What?

“Claire, it’s April.”

“I know. But you love pumpkin pie.”

She’s standing on his front steps, holding the non-seasonal pie she baked because she knows he doesn’t like cake, and Brad has the strongest urge to just skip ahead to the part where he proposes and they get married and he builds them a little white cottage in the mountains (but also within reasonable distance of a quality baking supply store) and they spend their days laughing and cooking and teasing and making love and why hasn’t he kissed her yet?

“I, uh.” He feels clumsy. And he can see his neighbors puttering around their yard, and he doesn’t really want to kiss Claire for the first time in front of Mr. and Mrs. Schuylkill, who always bring him fresh tomatoes from their garden and tell him he needs to find a nice girl and settle down already. “Would you, uh. Like to come in?”

* * *

As Brad unlocks the door and gestures for her to go in first, Claire’s not one hundred percent sure where they are.

Emotionally, anyway. She knows the address. She typed it into her phone earlier.

But last night feels a million miles away. It was just a phone call. There’s no written record. No one saw it happen. It was just sound waves through a phone, gone as soon as they happened, and if not for memory, there’d be no evidence that she and Brad finally admitted to something so monumental.

(It did happen, didn’t it?)

If she just dreamed it all, Claire thinks, then she’s just a random coworker who showed up unannounced like some kind of stalker, holding the wrong kind of pie for spring.

Is there a rule for this? Do they have to review the previous conversation? Should she have typed up notes and sent them to him for his signature?

“Claire?”

“Hmm?” She realizes, a little too late, that she was standing in the middle of his entryway, doing nothing, while he was shedding his jacket and setting his bags down.

“You want to set that down?”

Claire looks down at the pie that she’s been brandishing like it’s the only reason she’s allowed to be here. “Uh, sure.”

She follows him into the kitchen and sets it on the counter. It’s a good pie. She knows it’s a good pie. But right now that’s more of a peripheral issue.

“So, Claire.” Brad takes her bag, tugs her jacket off her shoulders and tosses it over a chair. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to see you.” Telling the truth is getting easier.

“Well, good. ‘Cause I was hoping to see you.” He’s watching her with that open, frank gaze, taking everything in. “We’re still tellin’ the truth, right?”

Her cheeks warm, because it takes her right back to the night before, the quiet, warm, contained feeling, the phone call that changed it all. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He leans forward on the counter, his gaze fixed square on her. “Because I’ve been crazy about you for a while now.”

Claire has to look down, because her cheeks are burning and it’s all too much. Because even knowing the truth, even knowing the soft, flickering flame she’s been nursing is mutual, it’s hard to process knowing exactly how he feels.

She folds her arms. “Can we just – can we skip the part where it’s weird?”

Brad laughs at that, and she feels some of the nerves dissolve. “Oh, you just wanna cut ahead, huh? Skip all the steps? The hell is this, Gourmet Makes?”

She stares at him, mouth open. “ _Brad!_ I don’t cheat!”

“Oh, really?” He fixes her with an amused grin. “Remind me how you made those Oreos, again?”

Claire tries very hard to glare at him, although judging by his smile, she’s missing ‘glare’ by a mile. “No one else said it was cheating, okay?”

“Still don’t mean it’s fair,” he shrugs.

( _This_ feels right, she thinks. This is them. Bickering endlessly over nothing, just because they enjoy doing it.)

“Oh no?”

“Nope.” He shrugs, leaning on his wrists. “Total cheater, Half-Sour.”

Claire cocks her head. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

His eyes narrow, and then he shrugs. “Gonna do this.”

Before she can react, Brad takes a step towards her, cradling her face with his big hands, and leans down to kiss her.

It just feels like the most natural extension of them arguing, and if she weren’t so busy being kissed, Claire would laugh.

Well, she _is_ laughing. She can’t help it. It’s easy. It’s so easy, kissing Brad, and she thinks they should have done this a long time ago.

It’s no fairytale kiss. No big orchestra swell, no sunburst breaking from the clouds, no confetti. She has a strand of hair stuck to her cheek. She’s giggling, and he didn’t actually land quite centered on her mouth.

She doesn’t care, though. Because kissing Brad Leone is something she’s ready to become an expert at.

When he pulls away, Claire takes a long breath. Her mouth is tingling. “Oh.”

But Brad shakes his head. “No, no –”

“What?”

“That was a _terrible_ first kiss, Claire! We need a do-over.”

“Brad –”

She’s laughing, but she doesn’t resist as he leans in, grabs her around the waist, and lifts her up onto the counter.

Claire squeaks in surprise. “Brad!”

“What? C’mon, babe.” He brushes a strand of soft hair back from her face. “Need you up here where I can kiss you for real.”

“You – _mmph.”_

Her confused question is muffled as he steps in closer and kisses her again.

This time, they both get it right.

And if the second kiss is perfect, the third one is even better.

Brad’s careful with her, patient, gentle, his mouth soft on hers. But Claire’s impatient, and now that she’s had a taste, she can’t get enough.

She buries her fingers in the soft, short curls at the base of his neck, and he groans, stepping in between her legs, sliding his hands over her hips to pull her against the line of his body. It goes from sweet to hot in seconds; she nips teasingly at his lower lip, and he surges against her, rolling his hips into hers as he coaxes her mouth open, deepening the kiss. And suddenly it’s deep and wet and slow and she’s aching with arousal, her body thrumming with the vibration of pure need. She whimpers, soft and helpless, and when he slips his hands under the hem of her shirt, the shock of skin-to-skin contact sets her ablaze.

He finally pulls his mouth away from hers and Claire gasps for breath, clutching weakly at his shoulders. But he doesn’t pull away, just trails kisses down the line of her throat. His stubble rasps against her soft skin, and Claire bites her lip, her eyes fluttering shut. “Brad –”

“Yeah?” He sounds as breathless as she is. “You – wanna – ”

“ _Yes,_ ” she breathes into his mouth, and she kisses him again, greedy and _wanting_.

* * *

When Brad wakes up the next morning, he finds a soft, sleepy Claire burrowed against him, wearing one of his worn flannel shirts and a pair of his socks. Her hair is scattered across the pillow, her face half-buried, her breathing slow and steady.

She’s adorable like this, relaxed and calm, and the urge to build that mountain cottage isn’t going away.

(He’ll have to design her the perfect kitchen. Something with lots of natural light, and plenty of counter space. And if there’s room, a nice brick pizza oven. They’ll both like that.)

He does his best to pull himself away without disturbing her, but of course the movement wakes her up enough to notice. She lets out a soft, meaningless noise of protest, trying to pull him back. “Stay here.”

“I’ll be back in like a minute, okay?”

“But you’re _warm_ ,” she whines.

“Got no coffee here, Claire.” He kisses her cheek. “Gonna go get you some.”

“Fine.” Claire sighs. “Come back soon.”

Brad rubs a comforting hand over her shoulders, tracing her neck, the soft curve of her cheek. “Right back, babe.”

Claire murmurs something unintelligible, burying her face into the pillow again, and Brad slips out of bed and gets dressed as quietly as he can.

He stops on his way out to grab a bite of pie. It’s still delicious, although nothing will ever top eating it in bed with Claire at midnight, both sweaty and flushed and ravenous.

* * *

After a quick stop at a coffeeshop down the street, Brad get home to find Claire exactly where she was: burrowed under his comforter, fast asleep. The sun is coming up outside, casting soft, pale light across the Claire-shaped lump huddled under his covers.

It’s a balmy spring morning, the kind he always loves, but he can’t help feeling like it’s not quite the same. It shouldn’t be, really. Not for him. Everything’s different now.

And it’s not that he regrets it. Any of it. No, not a bit.

He just…wonders if he needs to hold back. Brad comes on strong. He knows this about himself. He’s never been good at hiding things. And the last thing in the world he wants is to scare away the woman sleeping peacefully in his bed, just because he can’t stop himself from marching right across the room and shaking her shoulder and blurting out something reckless like _I’m head-over-fucking-heels in love with you and_ _I’m already like eighty-five percent sure you’re The One and I’ll destroy any fucking thing in the kitchen you want, just ask._

He’s very open, and Claire’s very _not_ , and even though it just makes him want to wrap her up in his arms and protect her, it also means that she needs space.

(Didn’t this all start with them talking from miles apart, anyhow?)

So rather than wake her, he puts her iced coffee in the fridge and starts looking around the kitchen, trying to decide what to make for breakfast. He was just gone for almost a week, so he’s a little low on the produce side. But he’s got eggs, roasted tomatoes and peppers, and plenty of spices and dried herbs, so he gets to work.

He hears water running from the master bathroom, but apart from that it’s quiet, so it’s a surprise when he looks up to find Claire leaning in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, watching him with soft eyes. She’s still wearing his blue-and-black flannel shirt – it’ll always be his favorite now – and the warm socks he’d pulled out for her at three in the morning, when the shock of icy toes on his calves had woken him up.

“Hey.”

“Morning.” She’s smiling at him, but it’s a little self-conscious. A little held back. “You said you’d come back to bed.”

He feels suddenly, hotly awkward. “Well, I – I didn’t wanna wake you up again.”

“It’s okay.” She shuffles softly across the floor, wrapping her arms around his waist, tucking her head against his shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Brad tugs her closer, leans down to press a soft kiss to her head. “Sorry.”

“Mmm.” She stretches up on her toes, pulling his head down so she can kiss him. “Hey Brad?” she murmurs against his lips, her voice soft and husky.

She’s warm and soft and cuddly and he’s utterly, completely, hopelessly in over his head. “Yeah?”

“You said something about coffee.”

That makes him laugh, tension draining from his shoulders. “Fuckin’ _hell_ , Claire. You’re gonna kill me.”

“What?” She pouts. It’s cute. “You _said_ –”

“In the fridge, my _God_ , Claire.” Brad sighs dramatically. “You’re _impossible_.”

But she just fixes him with that beaming, impish smile as she fetches the iced coffee, taking a long sip and sighing in contentment. “Thanks, Brad.”

“Anytime, babe.”

She perches on a stool across the counter from him. “What’s for breakfast? I’m starving.”

“Ah – well,” he starts, eyeing the scattered ingredients he’s pulled together. “It’s kinda like shakshuka, but, uh, less organized.”

Claire props her chin on one hand, watching him with sparkling eyes. “Sounds delicious.”

* * *

It’s over breakfast in his bright, sunny kitchen, soft and lazy after a night of lovemaking, that Brad figures it all out.

It’s not a verbal thing; there’s no flag, no caption, no conspicuous clue that jumps out at him.

It’s just the sparkle in Claire’s eyes when she looks at him, the smile that clings to her like light, the ease and warmth of the same kind of stupid, mundane conversation they have every single day. Nothing new. Everything’s changed, but maybe not.

(She said they were telling the truth now, after all.)

So as they finish eating, before she can reach for the plates to start cleaning up, Brad wraps his arms around her in a crushing hug, pulling her tight, burying his face in her soft hair.

She seems surprised, but she goes with it, sighing, melting against him. His throat feels thick and tight for some reason, like this one single moment can somehow crystallize and last forever.

“Really glad you’re here,” he manages. His voice is husky, his throat still tight, and she hears it, he knows.

“I am too.” Claire hums softly, contented, rubbing his back gently. “I should call you more often.”

Brad turns her face up to kiss her soundly on the mouth.

“Anytime, Claire. Anytime.”


End file.
